That night I called on a car I’d had my eye on for a while, but which I knew had been through several showings earlier in the week. He told me the car had not been sold, and agreed to schedule a test drive for the next afternoon. I got my mom to join me on this test drive, male members of the family being at work. We met a colorful Indian man who showed us his gold Nissan Altima, the same age as my car, but with less miles and much better maintenance history. He was asking right at market value. Except for some very minor hail damage, the car was in great shape. I’d checked the VIN to make sure everything was clear. The story went that the car had been owned by only one elderly gentleman since it was made, until a couple months ago when the Indian man bought it. But the Indian found another car he liked better and was now interested in selling this one.

The Altima tends to have trouble with the CV joints, something to do with the wheels and axels. But the owner had just paid to have that fixed. Plus there was a new alternator, front tires, and air filter. Altima’s use timing chains instead of timing belts. They are much more durable, fairly easy to replace, and thus, inexpensive. Really the cars have a reputation for being very reliable mechanically. When we test drove it there was a bit of a squeak when we went over bumps, nothing too annoying or worrisome. I left the test drive fairly certain I would buy that car.

That night I called to schedule a pre-purchase inspection of the car with my mechanic. It was quite stressful, as I felt like I was putting the owner out, and trying to coordinate between my mom and I and the owner and the mechanic. Plus Mom was babysitting, and I needed to talk to someone interested in buying my old car. But I straightened my back and marched forward. Took the car and the owner to my mechanic (a recommendation from a friend, but a shop very close to my house), who told me the car checked out. So we drove back to the owner’s apartment, and completed the transaction.

To buy a car privately in Colorado, you have to sign the Title, put the new owners address on the back of the title, and record the Odometer Reading at the date of purchase. Plus you need a bill of sale with the date, seller’s name, buyer’s name, signatures from both, amount of sale, and VIN # for the car as well as the year, make, and model. While I wrote out those things, the owner counted the cash. We shook hands. He got his plates. And I drove my new car home, with proof of insurance and the bill of sale on hand, while my mom drove my old car back home.

The day I bought my car was Veteran’s Day, a government holiday, so I couldn’t apply for temporary tags right away. Instead I parked my new car in the garage and began the transfer of items from my old car to the new. (In my car I keep coats and blankets and a Bible, pro-life literature, tracts, grape juice, a footstool, hats, gloves, cleaning supplies, a spare pair of clothes, maps, mall directories, a camera, and batteries as well as a cell phone charger and garage door opener.) The new car just barely fits in the garage, as it is longer and wider than my old one. However, it is set up much the same inside so that driving it is still rather intuitive. The Altima does not have a sunroof, which makes me sad and inspires all sorts of improvisations like taping a picture of the sky onto the inside of the roof. Yeah. I’m that weird.

My hands have spent a lot of time on my head lately.Life is too big for me sometimes.Like this week.At my church I’ve been teaching a women’s Sunday morning Bible study on Ephesians.Have you ever looked at a hill from a distance and thought you could get to the top in an hour or two, only to discover when you get closer that the hill is a mountain with no scalable paths?And for a breathless, unmeasurable time, you think you’ll never make it; you wonder why you tried.At the last possible moment, wings come in, sweeping you up like the eagles to hobbits on Mount Doom.God’s grace comes beneath your weakness, and through no fault of your own, you’re at the top, taking down your hands from your face to enjoy the view.

I watched a movie the other night.It wasn’t a really good movie.The cinematography was unique, and the acting was superb.Anthony Hopkins, playing a familiarly dramatic role, was suppressing his emotions, and trying to hide them.He kept holding his face in front of his eyes as if shielding them from a light, when really he was shielding tears from sight.Even when there aren’t people to see me, I keep putting my hand over my eyes.Actually, at twenty-three, it’s hard to cry anymore, so the gesture is an act of the will to indicate emotion I can’t express any other way.But the emotions, even at my age, must be expressed.

A friend and I are starting a small group for high school girls, and quite frankly, I don’t know where to start in connecting with them.Emma describes Robert Martin to her friend Harriet (in the Gwyneth Paltrow adaptation) as a man as much above her notice as below it.Is evangelism and discipleship like that?Either people know they need discipleship and God’s grace because they’re that mature or because they’re that empty? And I’m looking at some of these girls seeing so much need, but they’re not quite broken enough yet to value it, and I don’t know how to start a conversation or to whet an appetite for a close relationship with God.I guess it’s all up to Him.

Psalm 32 contains God’s promise to guide me with His eyes.So maybe putting my palms over my eyes is a way of getting me to follow Him, recognizing my own lack of wisdom.Too bad God has to force me into faith.

Then recently every time I try to get on the internet (check my library due dates, blog, check messages, look up movie times) I have to refresh a hundred times, and it still doesn’t work.I’m so inefficient, and end up doing a fraction of the things I’d intended with a day.That’s a cause of frustrated grasping of my head.

Maybe excitement could explain the frequent movement, too.This week quite unexpectedly I made my first sale on my business website: www.LadyofLongbourn.comAnother exciting find was a website about Hebrew alphabets and words that argues for a Hebrew – or Edenic (long story) – etymology for most words worldwide. True or not my mind has been spinning with possibilities, and I’m finding it incredibly easy to learn new Hebrew words.But then I always have.

On Monday I got a bargain at the thrift store, and spent less than $3 on a brand new CD of classic hymns sung by the amazing St. Olaf’s Choir.St. Olaf is a Lutheran Bible College whose incredible music department was featured on TV this Christmas season.My brother and I stayed up irrationally (but not atypically) late watching it one night.The beauty – the gift of it so touched me that I put my hands to my head.

Dad and I went to the Colorado Republican caucus on Tuesday, which was an experience in disorganization and disbelief you wouldn’t, uh, believe!Do you know the actual rules stated that ties in our precinct should be decided by a coin toss?No one had any idea what they were doing, and since I couldn’t help us out, I put my hands on my head.

Sunday I sat on the floor in my sanctuary, which was an exciting change.You’ve no idea how many times I wanted to sit on the floor instead of formal, uncomfortable, modern chairs.Mary of Bethany sat at Jesus’ feet, and that is quite my preference.I probably won’t do it all the time; I fought against feeling self-conscious.But it was neat to experience freedom in that way.

The Superbowl…Ok, to stop all scorn in its tracks, I babysat for a neighborhood outreach party put on by a church plant in Denver, and then hung out with everyone for the last quarter, so it isn’t like I was idolizing football or anything.The Superbowl was a nail-biter, quite exciting.I couldn’t believe some of the plays I witnessed.Nice escape, interesting throw, and impossible catch for essential first down.Yep.I even know what I’m talking about.Hands over my eyes.

Monday was a rambling day, much like this post.How beautiful to spend unhurried time at the library, wandering around, thinking, scurrying back and forth from the movie shelves to the computers (which work!) there, as an idea of another movie to watch came to mind…And then on Wednesday I got to go to tea with a new friend.Tea, yes.I had mint chai, which is just as good as the other varieties I’ve had.With enough sugar almost any tea tastes good, I think.I just needed to get tea done the British way, with milk, too.

I’ve been doing much praying for a special person, name to be announced sometime after I learn it myself.My expectations for him are so high that it’s only right I support him now, already, in prayer.But then I miss him.And I cover my face shutting out the vastness of the world that separates him from me – but, of course, all in God’s capable and good hands.Um.That was code.It all means that I wonder where my husband is, and when he’ll come, and want him to be here sooner than later, but I have no idea who or where He is.But God knows, and I trust God.

This week I spoke with a few friends about honesty, and how we wish the world would let us say the truth, say what’s on our hearts without code or offense.At least with them I’ll practice it.I hope they will with me.No mask here.Which reminds me – I’ve watched several movies with masks or masquerades in them recently.Lots of movies.

But movies always make me think.A movie I want to see as of today is Penelope, due to limited release on February 29.The fantasy, fairy-tale-ish story has a message of honesty, of taking the hands from the face and being yourself for all the world to see and know – even risking the hurt.

YLCF was a special blessing this evening, since the most recent post specifically addressed the topic of waiting for one’s handsome prince, and what to do while you wait.I know those things.I certainly rebel on occasion.The reminder was important to get me refocused, to seek the most excellent and most fulfilling.

I’m craving tea: my mom’s blackberry, which I never like.The clock, at almost midnight after a long day, declines my craving.In fact I even have to stop my ramble through writing.This post is the way I used to write emails to my friends: late at night, a summary of a dozen thoughts and events that come together to form a sort of three-strand theme.If my brother were writing, this would be a strongly metaphorical poem (trying to make sense of which would bring my hands once again to my head).My other brother would tell a wonderful allegory.I’m trying to get the latter to guest blog here sometime.He has a great story about orange juice…

Ramble away in the comments.Feel free to put the unconcise, irrelevant, unfinished thoughts you can’t submit as an English paper, or publish on your blog, or tell your friends when they ask how you are doing.Good night.